stort stories (some shorter than others)
The poisoning
I wandered off to find a place to poop, feeling “out of it”, unsure how “out of it” is really enough to be concerned about and debating whether thinking I am “out of it” leads to more of said “out of it” feelings. The desert makes people’s brains act out anyways, right? And I always feel weird when I’m counting trees. I made a mental note of the place where I exited the wash, just in case. Maybe that would help me on the off-chance that my brain and body really were about to fall apart. Eh!
Later, while gripping the steering wheel of the truck, I couldn’t decide if my vision was different than normal. Then I would squint and look at things in a weird way that was undoubtedly making my vision different than normal.
Was I also feeling lightheaded? No, my tongue was swelling up for sure. And was my throat closing? My hands going numb? It was all subtle, but I was sure these could be the many signs of something worse to come.
I took a deep breath to clear my thoughts. I could ask Beatrice what she thinks? But no, no need to cause any panic.
Upon my exhale I wondered if my breathing was weird, too? I could taste the strange bitterness in my mouth. Some of the milkweed sap had definitely made its way from the pods I was cutting to my tongue. Having no clue what a trace of milkweed sap could do to me, I braced for the worst. Would it affect my nervous system? My digestive organs I could probably handle with some puking. But my heart? My brain? It could do anything, and I was utterly unprepared! In my head, I started estimating the time to the nearest town. Maybe an hour, but we were heading in the opposite direction. I’d have to alert Beatrice the moment things began to go south for real. Oh, maybe it was already too late. It would be a sad way to go. Killed by a drop of Asclepias. Stupid. Tragic. Ah, but nothing much I could do about it now.
Ok, now it really was time to put an end to this train of thought. Chuckling yet still half scared, I shared my paranoia with Beatrice who, turns out, had been going through a similar thing of her own.
We survived, in case you were wondering. And if you’d like to read some other riveting stories about folks who bravely (stupidly) consumed milkweed, please do so here (box in bottom right corner is where it’s at): https://www.poison.org/articles/milkweed-can-cause-serious-poisoning-204 ;)
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My next life
Although I likely have no say in the matter, I have decided that I would like to be a milkweed someday. As a young seed, to be carried along by the breeze, taking in the landscape below, happy to be guided wherever it is going. Eventually I’d touch down in my new home, where I’d get to sprout and slowly grow, becoming friendly with the local donkeys. Oh boy, that sounds like a life!
In their milky embryos, the seeds are growing, siblings packed together as tight as can be. All lying flat against one another in orderly rows as, each day, they grow stronger and their pod larger.
The population we visit lies in a slight dip between the sand dunes and the freeway, very close to the US-Mexico border. About 50 plants, bursting with flowers, flopping around in the breeze. Abuzz with beetles and caterpillars, tarantula hawks swooping down and weaving through stalks and blooms (I love it, if you can’t tell!). Truly, each plant has held more flowers than seems to make any sort of sense - stems weighed down by them, looking too eager. But the flowers have begun to fade and turn into drooping pods, one or two, sometimes three, in each bunch.
Stalks are drawn downwards as the pods grow. Little hammocks, bopping around in the wind. We started putting rubber bands on the biggest of them, not to stop them, but hopefully to keep the seeds wrapped inside. When we tentatively began to open pods to see what was happening, the seeds were still white and fragile, floppy, the hairy “fluff” soggy and limp. But they kept growing.
Chrysalis’s can be found in the places below flowers, growing hard, I imagine, like the pods. Milky white, like the sap of the Asclepias. Adorned with gold and white stitching in a neat line near the top - gold flecks covering the body of the chrysalis. An elegant work of art here only for this brief moment of change.
They are beginning to burst! Not all at once, just a few on each plant, one at a time. They go from squishy to hard as rocks as the packed seeds push against one another- ready to escape. A slit then appears in the pod. A perfect opening, not a rip or tear, but an unzipping. This was built into the design: a hidden opening, waiting to reveal itself when the time is right. Then, the still developing babies pop it open, all the way open, sending those flat brown seeds to fly free on silky strings that now unfurl eagerly, with grace, full of pride. They are beautiful on those silken wings.
When we drop the ready pods into a bag - those that are barely held together by the rubber bands we have placed- they are determined to escape, and some do. The slightest breeze and the smallest opening allows one or two to take flight. When I look into a full bag, some usually manage to jump out of their own accord. Many types of seed take to the wind for dispersal, but the Asclepias seems more eager, as if with one kiss, it becomes a part of the passing breeze.
Off I would sail on my parachute of silk, becoming one with the wind.
Little rush milkweed (Asclepias subulata) babies, all packed in their pod
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Asclepias subulata
Tarantula hawk on Asclepias subulata
Species profile of milkweed: https://www.natureinstitute.org/article/craig-holdrege/the-story-of-an-organism-common-milkweed
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Inching along
They were going, one body length at a time, exactly where they needed to go.
Until the whole world fell down, taking their small body with it. They paused. Continued inching along: front moves forward, back meets front, front moves, back follows, front, back. The only way to get somewhere is to keep going.
The ground keeps changing. They are walking on something hot and greyish-red that shifts even under their small feet. A brown line, a lot like home. Something pale, with strange topography that is always moving and changing. Skin, plastic, cotton. So many colors and so much movement. They are lifted up again; they stop moving.
Surrounded by blue, just like when the world fell down. But this time the world is pushing up against their legs instead of tumbling away. And then all is still. They wait.
Keep inching, onto the line of green ahead, and this one is home, whatever that means.
Front moves forward, back meets front, front moves, back follows, front, back, front, back, front, back, front. Inching along.
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MY HAT AND MY SANDWICH!!!
I tried to tell the lady at the gas station my story, but she was utterly uninterested. So instead I will share it with all of you!
Last week I ended up at the gas station near pilot’s knob where gas is too expensive to think about and plenty of people somehow manage to camp out in RV’s etc despite the heat. I sauntered inside, hatless, and purchased myself a camo hat with a neck protection flap, a chicken cranberry salad sandwich, and 2 tapatio pickles (one for Beatrice, for her trouble).
That’s it, that’s the whole story. I forgot both my hat and my lunch in one day, and now I have a backup car hat so all is well. Anyways I just thought that was relevant.
Tapatio pickle
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PARTaaAyyy in the DESERT
Desert parties aren’t too hard to find.
First, you follow the color. In a landscape of subtle greys, colors pops. When you see it, follow it. That’s what everyone else will be doing.
As you get near the host - maybe a desert ironwood or smoketree - you will begin to hear it. Buzzing, the sound of so many wings.
Oh, and these parties have been BOPINnnin!!! Poppin! All spring and into the summer. Stand by a flowering tree and its hip-happening. The smell of the flowers, the bees enjoying themselves. Pollinators of all types stop by, adding to the chorus the sound of their individual wings. Ants make their way on foot from one flower to another. I felt lucky just to be included in these springtime celebrations. Doing a little wiggly dance. Here in the buzz and the glow and the happiness of spring, the creatures have found one another thanks to the beacon of a tree. Sometimes a chill lizard stops by. Just hanging on a little branch. Perched in the web of leaves and flowers, just boppin’, bathing in the sun. That’s a good party.
But we’re all getting tired and the parties, understandably, have died down. It’s not the same, but as Beatrice and I collect what have become of those beautiful yellows and purples, we make music of our own. The sound of seed pods falling reminds me of rain. And as we’ve begun the time-consuming process of whacking the seeds from tall trees, we take a speaker with us into the desert. Dancing to music in the quiet expanse, enjoying moments of shade and breeze and sounds that tell me it’s ok, we are resting, but life is still here, waiting, growing slowly. We will be back, it tells me, life will always come back, don’t worry, rest, when we are ready, we will gather once more.